


We Always End Up Here chapter 2

by kelios



Category: Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Swesson, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelios/pseuds/kelios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awhile back I realized that I'd never read a fic about Sam Wesson and Dean Smith realizing they have the same tattoo--so I wrote one. Since there's never enough Swesson fic, I decided to keep their story going a little bit longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Always End Up Here chapter 2

The ride to Sam's apartment is quiet. Dean feels like it ought to be awkward or uncomfortable, but it's not. He looks over at Sam and Sam's looking back at him with a smile and it's just...right. Somehow. Dean’s pretty sure he's never been in love before, but Sam's smile makes him think this might be it.

"Home sweet home," Sam says, opening the door with a flourish. Dean steps inside and gives a low whistle. 

"You were holding out on me, Sam," he says. "This place is amazing." 

Sam smiles broadly in relief. "Yeah?" he says happily. "The mural is my favorite part." He points to the far wall, which shows a classic car parked next to an old, broken road, barely a rut in the grass. Two men lean against the car, staring up into a starry sky. Ambient light from the business across the street mixes with the glow of streetlamps and traffic signals to illuminate it almost eerily. 

"I didn't know they paid you techies well enough to afford a place like this," Dean jokes, looking around appreciatively. The apartment is an open floor loft, huge picture window directly across from the mural, two low dividers sectioning off a small kitchenette and an enormous bed from the living area. All the furniture is Sam-sized, including the bookcases overflowing onto nearly every available surface. 

"Technically....they don't," Sam admits wryly. "I get a discount because the owner is a little nuts. Told the manager to give the place to the first guy over 6'4 named Sam who came to look at it. It's true, I swear." The look Dean gives him is skeptical, but given how weird their lives have become, he supposes it's not totally insane. 

"Come on, I'll give you the tour," Sam says, grabbing Dean's hand. 

"Tour? Um..." Dean lets himself be dragged along as Sam points out the very obvious kitchen, bed and bookshelf before stopping in front of the mural. 

"It's not my favorite just because it looks cool," Sam says, eyes sparkling in anticipation. "Open the door." 

Dean looks at him in fond exasperation. "Sam...."

"No, really," he says, laughter bubbling through his voice. "Just grab the handle and pull."

Dean steps up to the mural, starting to catch some of Sam's excitement. He reaches out tentatively and is surprised to feel cold metal under the paint. 

"No way," he says, and Sam looks positively gleeful. Dean pulls the handle up, and the car door swings out from the wall, revealing a second room. Sam reaches around Dean to flip the light switch, and Dean flinches just a little because that’s just creepy.

"Oh, man, what the hell is that?" he says, shivering. The room is painted in the same style as the main room, but rather than the warm colors and sweet, almost nostalgic feel Dean got from the other mural, this one gives him the chills. Gray fog drifts and swirls around trees and scrub painted in shades of black and gray; the only points of color are the dots of red and yellow scattered throughout--always in pairs, Dean notes uneasily. 

"Ah, you get used to it," Sam says casually, stepping through the doorway and tugging Dean reluctantly behind him. "Apparently the owner is an eccentric painter named Carver Edlund. The attic is full of his paintings--and let me tell you this guy was seriously messed up. But the bathtub is big enough to stretch out in and the shower has amazing water pressure." He lets his lips brush against Dean's ear as his fingers slowly begin working open Dean's belt. "You wanna help me test it out?"

Dean pushes down his uneasiness, the feeling that there’s something more going on here and maybe they should talk about this. "Hell, yes," Dean says instead, turning his head to catch Sam's mouth in a hungry kiss. "I thought you'd never ask."

Sam groans into the kiss, grinding his hips forward into the plush of Dean’s ass has he fumbles uncoordinatedly with Dean’s belt and slacks. He mostly ends up groping Dean’s cock, which has taken a definite interest in these proceedings, but this is going to be over a lot quicker than Dean wants it to be unless someone takes charge. Dean shoves Sam’s hands away from his dick, which doesn’t really help because Sam immediately resettles onto the onto Dean’s hips and begins grinding into him in earnest, pushing Dean forward until Dean has to brace himself against the wall with one hand. It feels fantastic, the hard line of Sam’s cock dragging over his hole making Dean writhe and push back for more even through layers of cloth. Dean’s not sure he’s going to survive Sam actually fucking him at this point, but damned if he doesn't want to find out. 

“Fuck yeah,” Sam breathes against his neck, then bites down hard right underneath Dean’s jaw. Dean’s cock jumps hard as he clamps down on a groan, determined not to come in his pants for the second time in two hours. He finally gets his pants undone, vowing then and there that he is never buying slacks with an inner button again, no matter how trim they make his waist look. Sam immediately takes advantage, sliding his hand into the open vee and under the edge of Dean’s boxer briefs to grip Dean’s cock with warm, calloused fingers at the same moment that his other hand splays huge and possessive across Dean’s chest, dragging him into full contact. Dean’s head falls back on Sam’s shoulder, moan punched out of him as his whole body lights up with pleasure. 

But as good as it feels, handjobs against the shower wall are so not the plan right now. “Sam,” Dean pants, trying to think through the Sam-haze in his brain. “Sam, stop.” He gets a hand on Sam’s wrist and pulls it way from his dick, ignoring the unhappy rumble in his ear and the insistent throb in his balls to twist around and push Sam back a step. 

That gets Sam’s attention. He’s flushed and warm—Dean almost gets distracted by how much he wants to lick the bead of sweat meandering down Sam’s throat but he pulls himself together and puts a hand to Sam’s mouth to stop his stumbling, babbled apologies. Dean steps in close, chest to chest, hands on Sam’s hips and Sam closes his eyes with a groan. “Dean, come on,” he says painfully, “what are you doing here? What do you want from me?” 

Dean smiles and licks his lips, smile growing as Sam tracks the movement and swallows hard. “I want what you promised me,” he breathes, leaning up to just brush Sam’s mouth with his own. “I want you to fuck me, and if we keep going that’s not gonna happen til morning at least.” He steps back toward the shower, kicking off his shoes and letting his slacks fall to floor. “You coming?” 

Watching Sam strip is almost enough to get Dean to the edge again. His bare chest was distracting enough, but Dean can’t take his eyes off the cut of his hips or—he licks his lips again—the jut of his truly magnificent cock. Sam is uncut and beautiful, long hard shaft flushed red and shining with pre-come already, curving up against the hard, flat planes of his stomach. Dean’s mouth is watering at the thought of sucking him down and driving him crazy or even just the weight of it in his fist, warm and solid and heavy. They're both breathing hard by the time Dean pulls Sam into the spray, kissing him hard and fast and messy, hands finally buried in that ridiculous hair that he's been fantasizing about for days.

This time it's Sam who pulls back, resting his forehead against Dean's and breathing his air as they both struggle for control. Finally Sam steps back and turns around, reaching for a bottle of 3 in 1 shampoo.

"Get my back?" He says, looking at Dean coyly over his shoulder, and Dean's not really sure how that's supposed to help him focus because Jesus. Sam's back is a long line of muscle, tapering from broad strong shoulders to slim, narrow hips and an ass you could bounce a nickel off. There's a scar at the base of his spine, deep and ugly and red. Dean gets a handful of slippery soap and starts at Sam’s shoulders, digging into the muscles of Sam’s back as Sam leans both hands against the wall and sighs happily. He stops when he gets to Sam’s scar, touching the red, raised flesh gently. 

"Does it hurt?" he asks gently when Sam flinches a little.

"No...just feels weird," Sam admits, shivering again at his touch. "Motorcycle accident about two years ago. I'm lucky to be alive, lucky to walk."

"Yeah," Dean says quietly. The scar disturbs him, makes him feel protective and almost irrationally angry at the same time. He runs his hands over Sam's broad back, focusing on the warm, solid, living skin under his hands. Sam’s hands are splayed over the wet tile, head hanging down as Dean's hands reach his waist and Dean drops to his knees. Sam trembles as Dean leans forward and kisses the scar, a moan so low and desperate it’s almost a sob escaping his throat. He jerks, then pushes back in a wordless plea as Dean's mouth drifts lower, plush lips tracing the swell and curve of Sam's ass, teeth gently scraping the tender skin. Dean's not quite sure how they got here from their frantic fumbling earlier, but he likes it, feels an almost reverent desire to touch and taste wash over him. He gives into it, spreading Sam’s ass so he can brush his thumbs over the sensitive skin around his hole. Sam gasps sharply as Dean blows on the damp skin, and the sound Sam makes at the first brush of Dean's tongue makes Dean desperate for more.

"Dean, oh god--" Sam moans, sounding wrecked, and Dean hasn't even gotten inside him yet, hasn't even begun to take him apart. Dean licks more firmly, dragging a strangled noise out of Sam that turns into a full cry when Dean finally pushes his tongue deep inside him. 

"Oh God oh fuck, Dean," he babbles frantically. "Stop, you gotta stop, I'm gonna--" 

Instead, Dean points his tongue and digs in deeper, half drunk on the sounds Sam’s making, like he could come just like this from the sheer pleasure of driving Sam out of his mind. He pushes his tongue in as far as he can, then pushes the tip of his finger in alongside. Warmth sparks white hot along Dean’s spine as Sam's whole body goes tight, hole clenching around Dean's tongue and finger as his back arches and he comes, moaning Dean’s name. That’s all Dean needs to push him over the edge as well, drowning in the sound and feel of Sam coming apart around him. Sam slides down the wall with a groan to sit next to Dean while they catch their breath. 

"Jesus,” Sam finally manages, opening his eyes to stare at Dean in amazement. "What the hell was that?"

Dean grins at him smugly. "I take it you've never been rimmed before?"

Sam flushes a little. "I...uh...I've never done much of anything with a guy before," he confesses. "I messed around a little in college, but then I met Jess and..." He pushes his dripping hair out of his face and looks at Dean curiously. "What about you?" he asks hesitantly. “Have you done this a lot?”

"Some," Dean says, shrugging. "I’m mostly into girls but once on a while someone catches my eye." He leans back against the tile with a grin and a sigh. "You know, that didn't exactly go as planned," he says ruefully. 

"You have no one to blame but yourself," Sam says, grinning back. "But if that's a challenge..." 

Dean just laughs and hauls him in for another kiss, one that quickly turns gentle and sleepy. They stand up, leaning on each other with slightly wobbly legs as Sam reaches around Dean to turn the shower off. Dean grabs a couple of towels as Sam drags him out of the bathroom and into the main living area, drying himself and tossing one lazily at Sam when he collapses on the giant bed in the corner.

"Come on, dude," Dean says good-naturedly. "I am not sleeping in a wet spot before you even fuck me."

Sam opens one eye to glare at him, then sighs. "Fine," he grumbles, putting the towel to good use. "Now get over here so we can get some sleep."

Dean falls willingly into bed, but objects when Sam tries to drag him close. "We are so not cuddling," he grouses. “That was NOT part of the deal.”

“There was a deal?” Sam asks innocently, then pounces, wrapping his arms and legs around Dean gleefully as he shoves his face in Dean’s neck. 

Dean struggles to get out of Sam’s grip. “Seriously, no way,” he says in annoyance. “I’m not into that kind of stuff.” 

Sam lets him go immediately and shifts to the far side of the bed, hurt showing on his face for a moment before he smiles weakly. "Well, luckily we've got room," he says with forced cheerfulness, and pulls the bedding up and over himself and Dean before turning his back to the middle of the bed.

Dean sighs, feeling vaguely guilty. “Sam…”

“It’s fine, Dean. Go to sleep.” Sam’s voice is muffled and resigned, and Dean feels even worse even though he doesn’t quite understand why. He just knows he can’t let quite bring himself to let the evening end like this. Cautiously, before he can talk himself out of it or think about how awkward he feels doing it, Dean moves over until he’s right behind Sam. He can feel how stiff Sam is, how tight his shoulders are again, and that vaguely guilty feeling hits him even harder, right in the gut. He throws an arm over Sam’s waist, tucking himself tight against Sam’s back before he can talk himself out of it.

“This okay?” he asks gruffly. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself but he feels better the second he feels Sam relax, and he finds himself rubbing their tattoo gently, tracing the design over and over with his fingers the same way Sam had done just a few hours before. 

“It’s fine, Dean,” Sam says again, softer. This time Dean can hear the smile in his voice, and that makes all the difference. 

**************************

Shortly after they doze off, a man steps from the shadows. He's wearing long, dirty trenchcoat and his blue eyes are almost painfully exhausted. He watches the two men sleep for a long time, brow furrowed in thought, before vanishing with a sound almost like the brush of wings.


End file.
